I have always struggled with my weight. In other words, I've always struggled with a nervous tic in my arm that involuntarily picks up cream cakes and rams them in to my face. So, to try and treat this tic and the resulting 'sturdy' hips, I thought I'd go to Weight Watchers.
Weight Watchers. Fat Fighters. Fat Club. I had been going to a class on a Wednesday morning and had to change it because Eilidh's now at school, so I couldn't make it anymore (rather selfish on her part, actually). So, on Saturday morning, I went to the meeting at a different location. I couldn't find the bleeding place. It was in some community centre. I couldn't think clearly cos I hadn't had any breakfast and didn't want to breathe too deeply, in case any of these things added on about 6 lbs. So I pulled in to a wee spar shop to ask for direction, careful not to inhale too deeply near the chocolate bars. The shopkeeper was about to tell me where it was, when some old biddy who had been rudely eavesdropping, asked me if it were fat fighters I was looking for, and proceeded to tell me where the community centre was.
Cheeky, cheeky bandit. So - she's looked at me and thought - 'hold up, lardy lady.. you're looking for the community centre? Have a stop by weight watchers an' all.' Indeed. But at least I'm fabulous, and don't stink of urine and Scotch Broth.
It's such a strange mix of people.. people of all sizes, all backgrounds, all varying degrees of personal hygiene. But what's really strange is that everybody shares their tales of woe regarding their weight and what they've eaten in past week that may affect the outcome on the scales. (I like to refer to them as the scales of doom.)
"I had a sausage roll this week - I'll have put on at least 3 lbs."
"I've not had a bowel movement this morning, I've tried but I just cant go. That's at least 2lbs on the scales!"
"The bottom of my jeans are wet - I stood in a puddle coming in..how many pounds will that put on?"
And it's odd because in any other circumstance, you'd never dream of talking about your weight to people, let alone complete strangers, yet that social grace goes out of the window and folk ask you what you'd lost, what you'd gained, how much more you've got to lose (so they can can feel better about themselves when they've got to lose less than you).
Anyway. After the humiliation of standing on a set of scales and being told by a 'big boned' helper (who was sporting a moustache that would've made Tom Selleck jealous) that I'd put on 2.5 lbs, I felt like threatening her and her moustache with physical violence.
Came back home, having been thoroughly humiliated and emotionally slapped, and watched my favourite show - The Barefoot Contessa. Yes, a cooking programme. And I watched her make a whole load of chocolate muffins with peanut butter icing. And I am not kidding.... these things looked FABULOUS. My friend has a theory that watching shows like that, especially while on a diet is like watching food porn. You know you shouldn't. You're not allowed all the things that are being made, but you watch anyway. And feel guilty as you do so. You imagine what it would be like to lick the icing off the top of the muffins, before sinking your filthy teeth in to the soft, still-warm chocolaty sponge of the muffin. Making sure to cram the whole filthy cake in to your filthy face in case someone were to come in and catch you eating it. And then... you'd sniff the paper case... the crumpled paper holding on to crumby remnants of it's glorious occupant that has since been devoured so hastily.
I suppose the one thing in my dieting favour, is the fact that I'm too bone idle to go and make these damned muffins myself. I can look and drool, and imagine and dream about them, but all of that will not add the pounds. Or as it would seem in my case, it does. 2.5 lbs!? Damn you Ina Garten. Damn you and your fabulous cakes. And your mini meat loaves. And your chocolate brownies. And your lemon yogurt cakes.
And damn the scales at weight watchers. And the old biddy in the shop. And the slug on that woman's top lip.
And damn me for clearly eating too much this week...